


The Greatest Treason

by lezlies



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27428146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezlies/pseuds/lezlies
Summary: Confession may be good for the soul, but it's not so great for the career.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	The Greatest Treason

**Author's Note:**

> This story was published in D-Notice, a Pros zine Katharine & I co-edited in 1995. It has never been online, so it might be new to the youngsters.

> The last temptation is the greatest treason:  
>  To do the right deed for the wrong reason.  
>  _T. S. Eliot_

Cowley had remarked—on more than one occasion—that Bodie hadn’t sense enough to come in out of the rain.

Worse than listening to such little gems of wisdom was living down to them. Bodie turned up the collar of his black leather jacket, but it was too little, too late. He was already soaked.

For over an hour he had been standing there. The rain, more a drizzle, had barely intruded on his thoughts. The decision to come had been easily made. He had no other alternative. But nothing was final until he crossed the street and rang the bell.

He turned his face toward the sky, letting the rain splash over it. For a moment, it seemed to help, washing away the doubts that were plaguing him. But it was false comfort. The water ran off his face and under the collar of his jacket where it was eagerly absorbed by the clothing beneath.

There was no easy way out, and it was time to stop waiting for it to appear. Living life with few attachments was supposed to keep him safe from entanglement. Exactly when this philosophy had turned into a subtle trap eluded him.

No, that wasn’t it. This whole mess could have been avoided if he had moved on. He’d stayed too long. The few attachments he had allowed had become too strong, their strings steel cables that he couldn’t and wouldn’t break.

Now it was time to pay for his mistakes.

He stepped off the curb and crossed the street as the first traces of dawn cut through the darkness. He climbed the steps and pushed the bell. A few moments later the speaker crackled to life.

“Well?”

He took a deep breath. “Bodie, sir.”

“I’m assuming you know what time it is?” The sleep-roughened voice was ominous, but the door release sounded.

Bodie went in out of the rain.

He stood in the foyer. Cowley, clad in a dressing gown, came down the stairs. He motioned him into the living room where he looked him clinically up and down. “Och, let me get you a towel. You haven’t sense enough to come in out of the rain.”

It was the old man at his most exasperated, but he heard more than sarcasm, he always had. There was a connection between them that touched something deep inside him, soothing a wound so old and so deep that he had forgotten it was there.

A towel was thrust into his hands. He wiped the water from his hair and face while Cowley took a seat on the couch. He neatly folded the towel and laid it on the table then stepped back and assumed parade rest stance.

Cowley put on his glasses and scowled; the effect marred by horns of hair sticking out at odd angles. “This had better not be one of your juvenile pranks.”

He unzipped his jacket and pulled out a large manila envelope which he lay on the table between them. Still silent, he ignored Cowley’s questioning gaze.

“More trouble than any ten men,” Cowley muttered as he opened the envelope and emptied the contents.

Bodie clenched his jaw, steeling himself not to look away as the photos cascaded onto the table; pictures of him screwing Doyle.

Cowley grunted as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.

He steeled himself to meet Cowley’s eyes, but Cowley was already looking at him, silently asking for a denial. Something died in the piercing blue gaze when he looked away.

He expected anger and condemnation, but he had no defense against disappointment and pain. The shaky hands that gathered up the pictures were those of a tired, old man.

Each picture was methodically examined. His humiliation grew along with the pile of discards. The content of each picture was burned into his memory. The harsh black and white photos transformed the acts into something dirty and sordid.

He wanted to say that it wasn’t a crude wrestling match. It had been a game—a strange hotel room, a boring babysitting job, the lure of the forbidden.

The final picture hit the table. He stared at the tableau; Doyle, hands clenching the headboard, his face a grimace of lust, his arse full of cock. And himself, all he was in this picture was clenched buttocks. Up on his knees, everything above the waist was cut off.

Cowley fastidiously slid the pictures into the envelope as if they might contaminate him.

“I take it you are being blackmailed, not sharing your holiday snaps.” The words were sharp, but there was no bite in his voice. It was as if he didn’t have the heart.

He had to clear his throat before replying. ‘They want the security plans for the conference. I’m to await further instructions.”

Cowley took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “How could you blunder into a room with a camera?”

“I—we didn’t. Not exactly. It was the Robbins babysitting job. When the hotel was changed at the last minute, the management had to clear off a floor. After I got the pictures, I checked the hotel registry. The room had been set up for some accountant in the city whose wife was trying to get the goods on him. Instead—”

“Yes, Bodie, I am capable of filling in the blanks. Instead of catching a philandering husband, you were caught sodomizing your partner.”

Bodie’s face was burning. “Sir—”

Relentlessly, Cowley hammered at him. “He probably got four or five times what he would have gotten from the wronged wife. Maybe more if he showed them to enough interested parties. What do you think, Bodie, were the Russians outbid by the Arabs?”

Eyes straight ahead, Bodie maintained his silence.

Cowley shook his head and sat back. “Where’s Doyle,” he finally asked. “Why isn’t he here with you?”

“He doesn’t know anything about it.”

“Judging from the pictures I’d say he knows quite a lot.”

Bodie flinched but didn’t reply.

Cowley ran a hand through his already disarranged hair. “I don’t think either of us is prepared to discuss this rationally. Report to me after contact is made.”

He knew a dismissal when he heard one, but he didn’t move. “Sir, what about—”

“You may leave, Bodie.” Cowley stood and looked him in the eye.

“Yes, sir.” He turned smartly on his heel and walked out of the room.

Cowley’s tired question stopped him at the door. “This wasn’t an isolated incident, was it?”

“No, sir.”

He walked out into the rain.

And kept walking. Direction didn’t matter; all he wanted was to get away, away from Cowley and away from the sick, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

His future was in someone else’s hands. The thought was as insistent as the rain beating down on his head.

Anger sparked from somewhere deep inside, growing with every step he took. As his stride lengthened, his heels hit the pavement with growing, if sloshy, authority. How? The question pounded through his head. How had he let things get so out of hand?

Nothing in life was free. Every need carried a price. He had learned to keep costs down by making small, scattered investments. Only fools put all their assets in one place.

If only...

A bolt of lightning tore across the sky. Never a believer in providential signs, he nevertheless looked up nervously. He deserved to be struck down for letting those two words creep into his thoughts, the most miserable words in the English language.

If only.

It was a dangerous game to play, but he couldn’t step away from the table. If only the envelope on his doorstep had contained photos of his and Cynthia’s dirty weekend. If only they had used their brains instead of their dicks. He pushed back even further, back before the snake first entered the garden.

If only.

& & & &

Bodie flipped through the last few pages of his notebook, ostensibly reviewing the information imparted with great reluctance by Mr. Saunders, the un-cooperative chairman of the art gala that was to follow the auction. It was a strictly routine security detail, beneath CI5’s usual notice, so they compensated for the boredom by playing Conan the Art Barbarians.

After making him repeat a perfectly useless detail, Bodie pretended to laboriously scribble in his notebook while fighting the urge to move his lips as he wrote. Saunders could be a finalist in Monty Python’s Upper class Twit of the Year competition. He was blandly handsome in that bloodless aristocratic way, but then it was difficult not to look good in such a perfectly tailored suit.

“Would you like me write it down for you, Mr. Bodie? Perhaps if I used words of only one syl—" Saunders was looking across the reception court. A bemused smile of recognition made him look almost human.

“Ray Doyle.” Saunders muttered under his breath.

That got Bodie’s undivided attention. He looked up and saw Doyle and the security chief walking in their general direction.

“Hello, Ray.” Saunders’ voice was pitched to carry to Doyle, but no further.

Doyle stopped dead in his tracks, his face a mixture of shock and something else Bodie couldn’t quite put his finger on. In an instant it mutated and hardened into an ugly scowl. Abruptly he veered off and walked the other way.

The remnants of Saunders’ friendly smile lingered on his rapidly reddening face. Bodie actually felt sorry for the poor bastard. Doyle’s glare had done more than cut him dead, it had disemboweled him.

Saunders cleared his throat. “You can take the boy out of the gutter, but you can’t take the gutter out of the boy. He’s still an arrogant, judgmental little prick.”

“He’s my partner.” His voice held a warning note, but it was half-hearted. Saunders had a point. But other than that, his curiosity was piqued. What possible connection could there be between his scruffy, tea-slurping partner and this overbred twit?

“He’s in CI5. My, but the standards have certainly been relaxed. I didn’t realise the security forces employed known homosexuals.” He paused archly. “And believe me, little Raymond was very well known.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

Bodie stared after him, struck dumb by the accusation. Revenge—of a particularly nasty sort—was all it was. Doyle had probably arrested one of his playmates while he was on the drug squad. Worse yet, maybe he tried to marry into the family.

Nevertheless, he looked around to be sure there hadn’t been any other CI5 agents within earshot. He didn’t even tease Doyle about it on the drive back to base. But he couldn’t pretend that sparing Doyle’s feelings entered into his newfound sensitivity.

Something didn’t feel right.

He looked over at Doyle who was giving one hundred percent of his attention to the traffic. That was about 60% more than normal. Why hadn’t Doyle asked about Saunders? After all, he wasn’t well known for keeping his mouth shut if he was the injured party. Why had Saunders looked so...hopeful? If Doyle had only been halfway civil— 

He started to choke on the sausage roll he had snagged on the way to the car. Doyle’s sense of civility was quixotic at best.

“Told you those things would be the death of you.”

The complaint was familiar, but suddenly Doyle wasn’t. He tossed the rest of the roll out the window.

The ride was completed in silence.

The next day Cowley went into one of his fits, sending agents dashing to every corner of the island to gather seemingly random bits of useless information. For the next two weeks he saw Doyle only in passing.

Naturally, their first assignment together was a twelve-on, twelve-off surveillance job. There was no happy medium.

Bodie let the sweat trickle down his nose before wiping it away. Sweltering in the car had not been part of the CI5 recruiting speech. And if the last eight hours were anything to go by, entertaining banter was not on the agenda. Their last conversation had been a desultory exchange of witticisms about CI5 box lunches.

He eyed his partner glumly. When things got quiet, his thoughts turned to Saunders. The substance of the accusation wasn’t the problem. He didn’t care if Doyle screwed llamas, and llamas would be an improvement over some of the birds that Doyle fancied.

What really ate at him was that he didn’t know.

He looked at his watch. Four more hours. He leaned over to grab the camera and grimaced as his sweat-wet shirt peeled away from the vinyl seat.

Doyle of course had surrendered to the heat hours ago—sprawled in the seat, head tilted back and eyes closed, one arm resting on the door, the other hanging between the bucket seats, he looked resigned and peaceful now that the terms had been worked out.

“Wakey, wakey sunshine. It’s your turn to play peeper.” He thrust the camera toward him. 

Doyle opened one eye. “Tisn’t.”

He picked up Doyle’s limp arm and dangled in front of his face so he could see his own watch. Doyle yanked free. “Must’ve fallen asleep.”

“And here I was thinking you were working on the theory of relativity. Of course you were sleepin’, you idiot. Your snoring almost cracked the windscreen.” He was about to elaborate but Doyle began to stretch, if that was the proper description of the process unfolding before him.

Doyle, eyes closed, head lolling back on the headrest, looped his arms behind the seat and planted his feet squarely on the floor board under the dash. Then he methodically flexed every muscle, starting with his upper arms and proceeding slowly down his body in one smooth undulating wave. The thin green t-shirt and tight, soft jeans showed every ripple. He collapsed back into the seat with a grunt of satisfaction.

Vaguely uneasy, he wordlessly handed over the camera. It was his turn to relax. Since getting comfortable in the small hot box was impossible, he settled for not completely miserable by sliding down a bit in the seat and angling his body so he was almost prone. But sleep was impossible. Doyle was in his line of vision.

“Fuck it,” he muttered crossly and sat up again.

“If this was a boat we’d be capsized.” Doyle, sunglasses perched on the end of his nose, was scanning the crowd.

“If this was a boat you’d be feeding the fishies.” He scowled at his oblivious partner. “So, what do you have on for tonight?”

“Nothing special.”

“Been a lot of that lately.” He’d made similar observations about Doyle’s sex life, alternately frenetic or celibate, over the years, but now his eccentricity was another piece of the puzzle.

Doyle slid his foot down off the dash and shrugged. “Nothing’s caught my eye. Besides, some of us have standards.”

“Must be pretty strict standards, or unusual ones.” There was an unintended edge to the question that earned a quizzical look.

“More exclusive than yours. Even with ‘under 50, warm, and comes across’ you come up short once in a while.”

Three women walked out of the office block across the street. “Look at the legs on the brunette.” Bodie whistled appreciatively. “I think I’m in love. The one in the middle isn’t wearin’ a bra. Personally, I’d throw the blond back. She looks like a whiner.” He punched Doyle’s arm. “Do any of them stiffen up your chewin’ gum?”

Doyle zeroed in on them with the telephoto lens. “First off, the love of your life is wearin’ a bra and the brunette must use a chisel to get all the goop off her face.”

He grimaced as they walked by the car. “You’re right.” He snatched the camera away. “Have I mentioned lately what an annoying quality that is, Raymond?”

Doyle sighed soulfully. “It’s like a pregnant woman eating for two—I have to be right for both of us.”

The withering response that would have put Doyle in his place was never delivered. Someone up the street caught his eyes.

“What about the brunette in front of the launderette? Is that more your style?”

Doyle squinted into the sunlight, then shook his head. “You need to have your eyes checked, berk. She’s a red head, looks natural, too.”

“No,” he insisted, “the brunette beside her.”

‘That’s no bird—” Doyle froze, every muscle tense from his white-knuckled grip on the dash to his tightly clenched jaw. He finally shut his gaping mouth and stared at the dash.

Guilt stabbed at him as he looked at the downbent head and listened to the ragged breathing. He reached over and awkwardly patted his arm.

Doyle jerked away from his touch. Anger was the only thing glistening in the green eyes. “What took you so long? I mean, it was Saunders, wasn’t it? Did he give you lots of juicy details?”

Bodie wished he was a thousand miles away. This was hardly the place for a scene. An old lady waiting for the bus was already watching them avidly. “Look, I’m sorry I said anything. Just drop it.”

“You bastard. This is just a game to you, isn’t it? Make Doyle squirm. Who else have you let in on the joke, Bodie? Is Murph going to making smart comments?”

He rounded on Doyle. “Thanks a lot, partner. I keep forgetting what a bastard you think I am.” He took a deep breath, but it didn’t calm him. “Listen, you little twit. If you’d keep your mouth shut a minute, I might get the chance to tell you I don’t mind.”

“What a touching moment,” Doyle said sarcastically. “Am I supposed to be grateful?”

Bodie’s fist shot out at the sneering face. The blow was deflected, and his wrist caught in a painful grip. He gasped as his wrist was bent back with almost enough pressure to snap it.

“Shut up and listen, Bodie.” White with anger, Doyle spoke with deadly clarity. “This may come as a shock, but I’m not looking for your approval or your understanding. Just stay the fuck out of my business.”

He sagged back when his wrist was abruptly released. Doyle wrenched open the car door and stalked away from the car, leaving the door gaping open.

He reached across and slammed it, belated noticing that their little scene had attracted an audience. He glared at one old biddy, and she didn’t move along until he gave her the finger. Doyle had to turn everything into a fucking scene. He slapped the steering wheel, but his aim was off, and he hit the horn. Not exactly SOP for a stake-out.

Saunders was right. Doyle was an arrogant, judgmental little prick.

He covered the last bit of their shift alone.

The next day he let Doyle stew. There was no trying to cajole away the scowl nor trying to joke away the tension that sprang between them the moment Doyle got into the car.

It was the longest most miserable week he’d spent in CI5. After the second longest, most miserable week, he accepted that there would be no apology. By the third week, they could give cold war lessons to the Russians, but he didn’t crack. This time Doyle was going to have to make the effort.

The fourth week brought detente: they were talking but it accomplished nothing.

Then Doyle had to go and save his life.

“You don’t need to come up.” He had the passenger door open before Doyle could turn off the motor. His head still ached from the bullet crease, but worse was the overall shakiness—looking down the barrel of a gun and watching the trigger being pulled tended to have that effect.

“Shut up and let me park the car.” It took four tries for Doyle to get into the roomy slot, but he didn’t comment, nor did he argue when Doyle trailed up the stairs after him.

He put on the lights. Doyle had already collapsed in his customary chair. From the pale, tense face, Bodie could see that he wasn’t the only one still shocky. He fixed two large tumblers of whiskey and handed one to Doyle before sitting on the settee.

He savored the first sip of whiskey. Every sense was heightened after escaping death. It was like being born again.

Doyle had picked up his glass, but he was just staring into the dark liquid.

“That was a hell of a shot,” Bodie commented offhandedly.

“I’m sorry I overreacted.”

“Overreacted!” Bodie sputtered. ‘The bastard was squeezing the trigger!”

Doyle looked up, obviously confused. “Oh, you mean tonight.”

“Yeah, tonight.” It had been a 50-yard shot made from an impossible angle in a nearly dark warehouse. Doyle had hit the bastard smack between the eyes. “For a minute there it sounded like you were sorry you shot him.”

Doyle jerked upright sending whiskey sloshing over the edges of his glass. “Don’t you ever say that. The only time—” He cut himself off and looked away.

‘The only time what?” Bodie prompted.

Slowly Doyle met his eyes. ‘The only time I don’t feel ... bad afterwards is when I’ve done it coverin’ your back”

It was his turn to find something interesting in his glass. He had to dear his throat before speaking.

“You know you’ve been a real pain these last few weeks.”

Doyle had the grace to look rueful. “Yeah, but it was your own fault.”

“My fault? You were the one doing the shouting.”

“I had the right, mate. Before your little ambush I’d spent two weeks waiting for the guillotine to fall. Then, just when I was beginning to think Saunders had kept his mouth shut ... wham ... you hit me with it.”

“How did you know Saunders even said anything?” Bodie didn’t miss the tightening of Doyle’s mouth at the name.

“Because Colin was, and probably still is, a first-class prick. Besides, you spent the rest of the day looking like somebody had nicked your last swiss roll.” Doyle looked at him pointedly. “You don’t hide your disappointment well.”

“Wasn’t disap—”

“Shut up and let me finish. Now I wish you’d have just blurted it out that afternoon. I even had a calm, rational explanation all worked out. Instead you started brooding.”

“Brooding? Me?”

“Yes, you were,” Doyle said firmly before taking another drink. “Every time I turned around, there you were, watching me like I was some invader from Mars. It was like being under surveillance. Christ, you nearly had heart failure when you walked into the ops room and saw Murph’s hand on my shoulder.”

Bodie wasn’t going to sit still for that one. “You try working something like this into a conversation. If you were so anxious to talk about it, why didn’t you say anything?”

Doyle blinked in surprise, then subsided back into his chair. “Ok, so I wasn’t keen on bringing it up, either.” The last inch of whiskey disappeared from his glass.

The one thing he did feel guilty about nudged his conscience. “I’m sorry for the way I sprang it on you. And for the record, I didn’t mean to give the impression I was forgiving you. I meant it wouldn’t get in the way of the partnership.”

Doyle looked at him sheepishly. “I didn’t mean it either, about you telling Murphy. I trust you, even though you enjoy pretending I don’t.”

Abruptly the atmosphere cleared between them, as if a cool breeze had pushed away. He poured himself another drink and sat back to soak in the normalcy.

So why did he feel like there was yet another size nine about to drop?

Doyle was leafing through a gun catalog, working on his third drink. When the drink disappeared in one gulp, alarm bells rang. Doyle, who respected guns and took fanatical care of his, nevertheless thought gun catalogs were for violence freaks. His posture also drew Bodie’s critical eye. He was still tense, almost expectant, two hours after a shooting—in the middle of the night—when he should have been drooping.

Suddenly Bodie twigged. Interrogation technique was his specialty, learned watching the master, Cowley, at work. If he walked into an interrogation room and saw a suspect acting like Doyle, he would relax because that type was ready to spill his guts; he just needed coaxing.

“You never did give me your calm, rational explanation,” he prompted.

Doyle looked up from his magazine. “Bit pointless, now, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Not really. You haven’t even asked what Saunders said.”

Doyle tossed the magazine on the table. “So tell me.”

The unconcern told Bodie he was on the right track. “Not much. Just that he was surprised CI5 hired known homosexuals.” He paused a beat. “And that you were very well known.”

Doyle’s face reddened. “I suppose you want all the juicy details?” Doyle asked belligerently.

Determined to stay the voice of reason—not to mention guiltily enjoying pushing Doyle’s buttons—he stepped back. “Hey, I told you before, it doesn’t make a difference. Obviously you’ve been discreet or I would have twigged before now.”

“Wait a minute.” Indecision was plain on Doyle’s face. “I’m not—I mean, I haven’t—sod it.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.

“Relax. You don’t owe me any explanations.” He picked up the gun catalog and sat back, smiling benignly. “Just be careful.”

Doyle rolled his eyes. “That tears it. Put that thing down.”

He exchanged the catalog for the bottle of scotch and leaned over to refill Doyle’s glass.

“You don’t have to get me drunk.” Nevertheless, he quickly gulped the dark liquid. After staring at the empty glass for a few moments, he squared his shoulders and finally met Bodie’s eyes. “Not much to tell, really. I’m bisexual.”

Bodie nodded noncommittally. ‘When did this start?”

Doyle shrugged. ‘When did you start being heterosexual? I’ve been attracted to both men and women ever since I got started. And don’t ask, because I have no intention of telling you.”

His pout of disappointment bought him a smile. This time Doyle continued on his own volition. “You aren’t in danger of losing your 007 rating for not knowing because there hasn’t been anything to notice since I joined the force.”

“That’s ten years!”

“Eleven,” Doyle corrected flatly.

“Then how can you be bisexual?”

“It’s not like letting a subscription lapse, for Christ’s sake.” He paused, obviously struggling for the right words. “It’s like being ambidextrous and training yourself to be right-handed. You just keep yourself from reaching out with the left.”

“Don’t think I could give up sex.”

“Didn’t give it up, did I? Just one way of doing it. I know what a crimp that would put in your repertoire, but I do all right.”

‘Don’t you miss it?” The question popped out before he could stop it. It was somehow too personal even though the topic was sex.

“It’s like something from another life.” He leaned forward, as if he could make Bodie understand by osmosis. “I made a choice and I stuck with it. This job is important to me. I’m not going to jeopardize it.”

Bodie had nothing to say to Doyle’s expectant look. No job would ever be worth that much to him.

“A word of warning, Sunshine. Saunders might try and make trouble for you. Maybe even tip off Cowley.”

“Cowley already knows.” He sat back, looking worried.

“What?” Bodie bolted upright. “I’ll break his fucking neck!”

Doyle burst out laughing. “Down, boy! Saunders didn’t have anything to do with it. I told him before I joined CI5.”

Feeling like he was in the presence of the post-lion Daniel, Bodie could only stare in amazement.

“Had to, didn’t I,” Doyle continued. “My Lieutenant tipped me off that Cowley was interested—I think he was trying to get rid of me. I wanted in, but I knew the background check was brutal. So, I beat him to the punch. I walked into his office and told him I was bisexual, but that it was in the past, and if he could find even one man I’d slept with since joining the force he could get rid of me.”

Bodie grinned, wishing he could have seen Cowley’s face. “Christ, Doyle. I can’t believe he let you get away with that.”

“After giving me that fishy cold stare of his, he told me that he would get rid of me when he was good and ready, with or without my kind permission.”

“Ouch.” Bodie winced sympathetically. “But obviously it worked.”

Doyle snorted disparagingly. “Cowley’s snobbery was what got me in. Very much a believer in the right sort, is our George. He knew my background, so naturally I had to be flawed in some way.” His expression darkened. “I finally got called in for the interview. I stood there and listened to him whinge on about my ‘unfortunate upbringing’. And while my ‘sexual escapades’ were regrettable; they were indeed in my past and that I deserved credit for overcoming so many obstacles in my life.”

Doyle’s obvious bitterness made Bodie uncomfortable. “But Cowley really meant it, didn’t he? I mean, he hasn’t held it against you.”

Doyle crossed his arms. “And I’m supposed to be grateful? Look, we’re never going to agree about Cowley, so let’s just drop it.”

“Was there anything for him to catch you out with?” he asked offhandedly.

“No, and there never will be. I won’t give the old bastard the satisfaction.” His quiet determination gave way to a hint of a grin. “Why? You worried that I’ll throw myself at you in a fit of uncontrolled passion?”

Bodie batted his eyelashes. “I just figured you didn’t like ‘ern tall, dark and handsome.”

“You know somebody that fits that description?”

It was going to be all right. Bodie finally relaxed completely for the first time since Saunders upset his ordered universe. Once a subject became fodder for their teasing, the power to hurt was gone. A jaw-cracking yawn took him by surprise. He quit fighting it, ready to give in to sleep until a stray thought brought him up short.

“How’d you get involved with a berk like Saunders?”

Doyle’s face closed tight. “What about Africa, Bodie? When are you going to tell me about your time there?”

“It’s a continent south of here.” Bodie set his jaw stubbornly. “Nothing to tell. Ancient history, mate.”

“Bloody typical.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Saunders is history just as ancient. We all have parts of our lives we aren’t proud of.”

“I’ve never been ashamed of being a mercenary.”

“That’s your problem.” Doyle stood, but he wasn’t storming for the door. “Shift your arse, you’re sitting on my bed.”

Bodie found himself alone the next morning. A blanket stuffed in the corner of the settee was the only evidence of Doyle’s brief occupation. Since he didn’t have to report for hours—a bullet crease had its uses—he did a quick clean-up, fixed a mediocre breakfast—how predictable of Doyle to cut out when he was needed—and went back to bed.

The smell of freshly baked bread lured Bodie back to the present. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was already just past five.

A small tea stall down the street was opening for the day. A good cup of tea, or even a bad one, and a sweet roll—the thought propelled him down the street. A middle-aged woman was raising the awning while trying to fit the support pole into place. Bodie reached above her, holding the awning in place till she finished.

Receiving a curt thank you for his trouble, he waited until she wiped away the pools of water from the vinyl-covered stools, then slid onto the steadiest looking one. The proprietress’ mood visibly brightened when he plunked his money on the counter. Apparently, good deeds didn’t go unrewarded in her world.

He wrapped his fingers around the cup of tea she placed in front of him. The heat didn’t radiate far, but it broke the chill in his cramped fingers. He took a tentative sip and grimaced, wondering how tea could taste so old so early in the morning.

He watched as the woman went about her work. Her movements were mechanical, one task flowing into another, leading him to wonder how many years she had been stranded back there, performing the same tasks day in, day out.

One of the cattle, wandering through life, blithely turning away at the slightest obstacle, letting circumstances herd her along the path of least resistance until her whole existence was circumscribed to a tiny pen. It was only a matter of time till the butcher arrived. She probably wouldn’t even blink.

He took another sip of tea. For the last eight months he had blithely ignored all his rules of survival. Now he was paying the price. The wooden slats of the pen he’d wandered into were pressing against his sides. When he looked up, who would be holding the knife?

He slammed the cup down, sending tea sloshing over his fingers. The woman’s head jerked around, but all she did was reach for the tea pot. There were no recriminations, no dirty looks as she wiped up his mess. There had to be something behind her blank features.

“If I handed you a thousand quid, what would you do?”

She drew back, looking nervous. ‘What are you goin’ on about?”

“What would you do with it?” He forced himself to relax, pasting on what he hoped was a nonthreatening smile. Warily, she refilled his cup.

“Don’t be daft...” But something flickered in her eyes.

“Come on,” Bodie encouraged her softly, “you must’ve thought about it.”

A shy smile. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.”

He grinned at her, wishing he really could give her the money.

“I could’ve gone to Paris years ago.” Her expression hardened. “If only my Albert had bought into his brother’s bakery instead of this dump. I told him...”

Bodie tuned out his droning complaints. Cattle. Abruptly he pushed his cup away and threw more coins on the counter. Without another word, he got up and walked away.

“So where’s my thousand quid?” Her jeering voice followed him down the street.

The years with CI5 had been good years for him. After circling the globe to find a niche for his particular talents it was ironic he found it in England working for a dour Scotsman. But how much of that contentment did he owe to Ray Doyle? He’d never really thought about it before. Doyle was a part of CI5, it was a package deal. They had already fenced themselves off from the rest of the squad. ‘Mobile ghetto’, indeed. Sharing Doyle’s secret had extended that exclusivity into their private lives. Yet another piece of Doyle to protect. Now, it seemed so bloody obvious. Almost as bad as some drippy movie. The boundary separating them became fluid, both of them making forays across, but always darting back. Of course they hadn’t talked about what was happening. But on some level they must have understood because their humor certainly reflected the new situation.

“You’ll have to make do with me,” he camped to Doyle when his date cancelled.

Or when Doyle wrestled him to the ground and ripped the dynamite off his back. “I just can’t keep my hands off you.”

Or at their local when he nudged Doyle. “That guy over there can’t keep his eyes off you, mate.”

“It’s not me he’s lookin’ at, you big butch thing.”

Or when he plopped down a bottle of wine that wasn’t up to Doyle’s expectations. “I don’t put out for cheap wine.”

And his all-time favorite. “Don’t talk to any strange men.”

But that remark wasn’t what set events in motion ...

“I guess we’ll have to make do with each other.”

It was a variation on a line Bodie had used many times over the years. But, sitting in the deserted ops room, bone weary and thinking of their two colleagues who would never walk through the door again, the words sounded hollow.

Doyle tried to rub the dried mud from his face, but all he did was rearrange it. Resting the side of his head on the palm of his hand, he shut his eyes.

Bodie watched him fondly. While looking at that tired, defeated face, he realized that he hadn’t been kidding. They really would make do with each other, they always had.

He reached out to brush a clump of dried mud out of Doyle’s hair. But his hand lingered for just a moment before falling away.

Doyle smiled gently and leaned toward the touch and opened his eyes to look questioningly up at Bodie.

The confusion in the green eyes turned to apprehension. He jumped to his feet, sending the chair skidding back.

“Don’t even think it, Bodie.” It was a warning and a plea.

He was out the door before Bodie could open his mouth.

The response was automatic—he was halfway to his feet ready to follow, wanting to know what it was he wasn’t supposed to think about. Then he froze. The answer was obvious, even to Doyle. He’d been willing to sleep with his partner if that was what Doyle needed from him.

He sank down into his chair, his conscious mind still shocked at what his subconscious had decided for him. Doyle met all his needs, it was only fair that he meet Doyle’s.

The realization brought no sudden burst of passion. There was nothing particularly sexual about it. He could meet a need Doyle couldn’t entrust to anyone else.

But his offer—thank Christ!—had been rejected. He got to his feet, a little ashamed of the relief he felt, but glad he had made the offer, however unintentionally. He turned out the light on the way out the door.

A week later Doyle met Ann Holly. Ten days after that he was engaged. A day later it was finished. Doyle was left standing in the street.

And here I am, Bodie thought glumly. Standing in the street at dawn, living proof of the cyclical theory of history.

He stopped short and grimaced. Now he knew why he didn’t wallow in self-pity. He wasn’t any damn good at it.

Poor Ann. Now he could feel sorry for her. At the time he’d been too appalled. Only Doyle could be stupid enough to get engaged to prove a point. But that was Doyle, always ready with the grand gesture.

But he was the one who got Doyle off the street and back into the interrogation. Cowley had taken one look at the misery Doyle was taking no pains to conceal and granted him a two-day leave. It was probably the only time compassionate leave was granted for a broken engagement.

But there had been a death, in a way; Doyle’s last desperate attempt to fit the mold.

Bodie laughed outright when he realized Cowley could claim credit for the final act of whatever the hell it was that happened. Giving Doyle two days of unsupervised brooding time was a chancy proposition at the best of times. In his Post-Ann mood, it had been like sending a blind man with a candle into an ammo dump. Eventually he would stumble into something he shouldn’t.

True to form, Doyle had lit the heavens.

& & & &

Bodie stepped under the shower spray to rinse away the shampoo. The hot spray felt so good he lingered for an uncharacteristic extra few minutes before turning off the water. He briskly dried himself and donned his oversized toweling robe.

He glanced at the dock in the bedroom. There was almost enough of the evening left to warrant getting dressed and heading out for his local. Eva was ready to tumble. That got him as far as the closet, but extricating her would mean standing around in a crowded pub. He could find out if she was a natural blond another night.

There was nothing wrong with spending a quiet evening at home. He went into the kitchen and grabbed a beer and a packet of—he opened the bag and popped one in his mouth almost fresh crisps. The swiss roll was still in its wrapper, guaranteed fresh for a decade thanks to the wonders of modern science. He scooped it up on his way through to the living room.

He sank into the overstuffed settee after flipping on the box. Beer, chips, swiss roll, and a good match. Solitude had its compensations. Even his team falling behind didn’t dent his pleasure. He cut another slice of swiss roll, popped some chips in his mouth and washed it all down with a large swig of lager. He grinned, remembering how green Doyle looked when he did that.

No thinking about Doyle, he told himself firmly. Tomorrow would be Doyle’s first day back at work and there was no telling how he was going to deal with the broken engagement. He could predict how Doyle wouldn’t deal with it—quietly. But until he had to actually tolerate with the moody bugger he would just put him out of his mind.

A key turned in the lock. Only one person had the key, but his hand still moved toward the gun stashed under the settee. The door swung open. The light from the television flickered unreliably.

“Ray?”

“Who else?”

It sounded like Doyle, but it didn’t. So much for a quiet evening at home. “Good match,” he said hopefully. “Grab yourself a lager and another for me while you’re at it.”

There was no response. Not that he’d expected one. He glanced over at Doyle. His eyes were more accustomed to the dimness now, but what he saw puzzled him.

Doyle was leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his T-shirt clad chest. His jeans were faded almost white, the material clinging to every contour. But it was the eyes, narrowed provocatively, that made him uneasy.

He looked away, but the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with unease. It was as if he’d turned his back on a tiger ready to spring.

“Quit pratting about, I’m missing my match,” he said, just to break the silence.

“Turn it off.” Doyle’s voice was soft, implacable.

Irritated now, he studiously ignored the command. Yet he couldn’t resist looking out the corner of his eye.

Doyle slowly pushed himself away from the door and walked across the room. He stopped in front of the television, standing with his feet slightly apart and his left hand on his hip.

“You make a better door than a window. I can’t see through you.” Bodie counted to five, but Doyle didn’t move. “For Christ’s sake, Ray. If you’re trying to pick a fight, you’re succeeding.”

Doyle didn’t deign to reply. Instead, he calmly tugged his shirt free and skinned out of it. It fluttered to the floor.

“No offense, mate, but I’d rather look at the match.” Bemusement warred with exasperation as he regarded his enigmatic partner. Why couldn’t the little sod just get drunk and slobber over the bitch for an hour and get her out of his system? “Where the hell have you been, anyway? You forget how to answer a phone?”

“I was on my way to a bar to get fucked, but I decided you deserved the first shot.”

Bodie stared in amazement as his brain tried to relay words to his gaping mouth. Just another of their stupid jokes? He produced a smile and dutifully pasted it on, but it felt stiff and phony. “Lucky me.

Doyle nodded. He balanced himself on one leg and pulled off his boot, dropped it to the floor with a deliberate thud, staring at Bodie all the while. - 

“Is this where I’m supposed to swoon with desire, mate?” Bodie sat upright and grinned as he looked Doyle up and down, waiting for his comeback. But nothing was said; Doyle still hadn’t cracked a smile. He just slipped off the other boot.

Bodie’s grin faded, along with his confidence. “Come on. Joke’s on me. Cover up that skinny, hairy chest and get me a beer.”

Doyle thrust his hips forward, drawing Bodie’s unwilling gaze to his crotch. The silvery light from the forgotten television match created a halo effect, clearly outlining the slim hips and the obvious bulge in the soft denim. Bodie gulped as he watched one long, slender finger stroke down the length of the outlined cock. “This is what you wanted that day in the ops room, isn’t it?” Doyle’s voice was soft, ingratiating, yet slightly mocking. He planted a bare foot on the table separating them, then slowly pushed it aside. “I’ve seen that look before.”

‘No, I mean—” He clamped his mouth shut before he could make a complete fool of himself. What he felt that day in the ops room had nothing to do with this. Sleeping with Doyle had been an amorphous idea, lacking any conception of reality, a momentary lapse in sanity. All he felt now was embarrassment, and not for himself.

Doyle moved close, stalking his prey. “I lied to you, Bodie. I do miss it, I miss it a lot.” He trailed a lazy hand over his chest, his fingers carding through the soft hair to find a nipple. “It’s different with a man, better in some ways. But you’ll find out for yourself.”

He shook his head in denial. “Ray ...”

Doyle dropped to his knees.

“This is all your fault, Bodie.” He looked up accusingly from under his lashes. “Too damn understanding for your own good, you are. All the joking around brought back old memories. I had fooled myself into thinking I didn’t need it anymore.”

Bodie didn’t want to hear anymore. This farce had to be stopped. “You got it wrong, Doyle. Let’s just forget this ever happened. No hard feelings.”

Doyle’s earthy chuckle echoed through his chest.

“Too late. I’ve already got hard feelings.” His hands rested on Bodie’s robe covered knees, rubbing gently. “You were right about one thing. I do like ‘em tall dark and handsome. But you’re not handsome, you’re beautiful. So damned beautiful it hurts to look at you.”

A blush crept up Bodie’s face as the frankly appraising green eyes swept over him.

“I wanted you the minute I saw you. Hadn’t wanted anybody that badly, that fast, in years. Cowley didn’t assign me a partner, he gave me a penance for my sins.”

Bodie’s muscles tensed when the hands began to slowly slide up the outside of his thighs. A quick kick was all it would take to knock Doyle aside, but he didn’t move. While not yet arousing, the touch was seductive, firm and tentative at the same time. It was a lethal combination.

The hands moved higher to grasp the lapels of his robe, tugging them apart.

“So smooth, so strong.” Doyle sounded as if he was talking to himself as his eyes devoured the bared chest. “Gorgeous.”

The finger outlining his chest muscles made Bodie squirm. This couldn’t be happening, he told himself, even as Doyle’s thumbs found his nipples and rubbed them erect.

He was slipping under the spell Doyle was casting. But the magician was as seductive as his touch. Doyle glowed, as if recharging himself, pulling energy through his fingertips up his arms and into his body.

The hand fumbling with the tie of his belt yanked him out of his stupor. He knocked it away.

He met eyes as fevered as his own.

Doyle leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’m going to suck your cock.”

The desire insidiously teased into existence by Doyle’s hands, flared at the guttural declaration.

“I know you want it,” Doyle whispered. “I’ll get you good and hard and then you can fuck me. You’re already hard. You want it, Bodie, don’t fight it.”

The proof was throbbing between his tightly pressed thighs. He allowed his hand to be lifted away from the knot.

Slowly, almost reverently, Doyle separated the folds of the robe.

“I want your cock, Bodie. Let me see it.” Flushed and sweaty, Doyle insinuated his hands between Bodie’s knees. “I’ll make it good for you.”

Bodie gave into the insistent pressure and allowed his legs to be pushed open. Shame flooded him for allowing himself to be stripped bare like a spotty teenager, but one look at the man kneeling at his feet shattered his perception.

Doyle was staring at his cock the way a recovered alcoholic looked at a glass of whiskey.

Fascination and revulsion collided as he endured Doyle’s scrutiny. Embarrassed for Doyle, appalled that he should be so obviously turned on at the sight of a cock, yet intrigued that he was. Lurking under the confusion was a sense of power; that he could bring his defiant, self-confident partner literally to his knees.

“Oh, Christ.” Doyle reached down and jerked open his pants to free his aching erection. He stroked it once, twice, then let it go to renew his grip on Bodie’s knees.

Slowly, he leaned forward and rubbed his face along the side of Bodie’s cock. “Oh, yeah,” he whispered breathily, “beautiful.”

Bodie’s eyes took in the tableau before him. His nerves screamed at the brush of smooth skin against his aching flesh. All of Doyle’s attention was focused on his cock, a tawny cat toying with its prey. Back and forth his cock gently batted against Doyle’s cheek before gliding across Doyle’s lips where an absurdly chaste kiss was placed on the tip.

Bodie made a sound much too close to a whimper for his own comfort. He strained to move, wanting more pressure, but the hands held him immobile. He grunted as a wet tongue teased around the base. His body tingled with anticipation as he realized Doyle was really going to do it. But nothing happened.

Doyle was looking up at him, the mocking light strong in the hot, green eyes, and Bodie understood that power was transient at best.

He was beyond caring. “Do it.”

‘I told you so’ glinted in Doyle’s eyes as Bodie tangled his fingers in the thick brown curls to pull him toward his straining cock.

Climax almost overcame him at the first hot suction, but he held it back by pure force of will. It was his last conscious act. Doyle’s mouth was everywhere, his tongue a tantalizing counterpoint, mapping delicate trails over his cock and balls. Bodie surrendered, not caring that his cries of pleasure drowned out Doyle’s muffled groans.

Time and again, he was brought to the edge, only to be pulled back, before being taken impossibly -’higher. All doubts and fears were pushed aside. They were a sexual entity outside the bounds of their real world identities and obligations. He reveled in the raw physicality of it as if he subconsciously understood that this needed to be the sexual experience of a lifetime. He would probably be paying for it that long.

The world blipped back into focus as the first shock of climax hit him. He tried to pull away, ashamed of his own lust, but Doyle hung on, not releasing him until he was completely drained.

He collapsed back into the settee, his body still tingling, feeling like he’d been run over by a tank. It took a while for the weight against his right leg to register. He dragged open an eye and looked down.

Doyle was curled around his leg, head pillowed on his thigh. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful and content.

An echo of the contentment he’d felt that day in the ops room flared which was odd, considering he didn’t know what the hell he was going to say when Doyle opened his eyes. Being on the receiving end of expert blow job deserved some type of acknowledgement. He prided himself on his post-coital technique but saying thanks to a bloke wasn’t in his book.

He slowly eased forward, careful not to dislodge Doyle. From his new vantage point he could see Doyle’s limp cock and the trail of semen that glistened down the front of the settee. He placed a hesitant kiss on Doyle’s shoulder. The fingers playing against his thigh momentarily stilled.

‘Thanks, mate.” Bodie winced. It sounded lame even to him.

A spasm of emotion crossed Doyle’s face, but it was gone before Bodie could identify it, then, Doyle, too, was gone.

He slipped from the sheltering curve of Bodie’s body, turning away before getting to his feet. Bodie pulled his robe closed and silently watched him cross to the liquor cabinet and fill two glasses with scotch.

He took the glass when it was offered, grateful for something to do. Doyle was standing there expectantly, seemingly unembarrassed that his cock was hanging out of his still unzipped pants. Hammersmith scored a goal. The roar of the crowd drew his attention back to the match. Bodie took refuge there, desperate to escape the tense silence. “You should have bet on this one, Doyle.”

“So how long will it take?”

Bodie kept his eyes fixed on the television. He finished his drink. ‘The second half just began.” 

“How long will it take you to get it up again? I came over here to get fucked,” Doyle snapped.

His hand closed around the forgotten beer can and squeezed. The now warm contents spilled over its fingers.

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

Doyle snorted derisively. “I knew it was a mistake to bring you off. If I had turned around you’d have stuck it in fast enough.”

“Shut up, Doyle.” There was no heat in his words. It was time to reclaim reality, where sex was uncomplicated and his partner an irritating prat, not some steely-eyed stranger. He looked over at Doyle who was now leaning against the doorway of his bedroom, his hips canted, one hand propped on his hip.

“I told you I was going to get fucked tonight. If you aren’t up to it, just say so and I’ll be on my way. There’s still plenty of time to find what I want.”

And Bodie knew that he would never see him again.

A traitorous thought insinuated itself. Nothing would be the same between them anyway, so why drag it out? There was something to be said for death with dignity, even for relationships.

Liverpool scored a goal.

Only the sounds of the television broke the silence of the apartment. Finally, after several minutes, he heard Doyle move, heard the rasp of his zipper being raised. It was almost over, but part of him couldn’t resist. There was a mirror to the left of the television.

It took a few moments, but Doyle finally entered the reflection. Bodie wasn’t sure what he expected to see, or what he wanted to see, but he hated what he saw. The goading seducer was gone.

But so was his Doyle. The person reflected in the mirror was a stranger. Hurt and afraid. He watched Doyle turn toward the door.

“Don’t go.”

It took Bodie a moment to recognize his own voice.

“Maybe it’s best.”

“For Christ sake, it’s a little late for that.” He looked over at Doyle. “I’m not going to beg you.” “Maybe I don’t want a mercy fuck.”

“Maybe I don’t want to fuck the slag you’ve been tonight.” He met Doyle’s gaze. “You know where the bedroom is. It’s up to you.”

It was a duel of gazes until Doyle dropped his eyes and disappeared into the bedroom.

And the winner is? Bodie wondered, bemused. He looked out the window just to assured himself that the real world still existed. All he really understood was that they couldn’t rejoin it until this drama was played out. Quitting now would leave nothing between them. Nothing could still be the end result, but he had to give them this chance.

He climbed to his feet, feeling like he was walking toward his execution instead of a sexual encounter. He paused when he got to the doorway. Doyle was naked, sitting on the side of the bed, his head down.

He entered the room and took off his robe.

Doyle looked up. Bodie breathed a sigh of relief. The mocking stranger was gone. This was his Doyle giving him a small, almost rueful smile as he approached the bed. For the first time that evening he finally felt like they were in this together.

Doyle scooted back until he was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed. “We aren’t that different, you and me.” His voice was low, almost soothing. He reached down and began stroking his cock. ‘This doesn’t care if the hand on it is attached to a male or a female.”

Bodie joined him on the bed, settling across from Doyle. He reached down and copied Doyle’s stroke, willing to follow Doyle’s lead for the time being.

“And if there had been a bag over your head earlier you wouldn’t have known if it was a man or a woman sucking you off.” Doyle’s other hand began caressing his nipples, moving from one to the other, lazily pinching and pulling them erect.

Bodie brushed a hand over his own nipples, but that had never been a hot touch for him. Obviously it was for Doyle. His cock was already erect, his hips slowly thrusting, his eyes heavy-lidded.

But it wasn’t a performance. It was Doyle revealing his sexuality without artifice, baring more than his body to him. And it turned him on more than any of the practiced, calculated seduction that had preceded it. He watched as Doyle rose to his knees, then sat back on his heels.

“This is what makes us different.”

Doyle brushed a finger up the length of his erect cock, then around the base and back behind the balls. Bodie watched, breathless, as the finger disappeared into Doyle’s body.

“I want a cock up here, and you don’t. I wish I could make you understand.” He massaged himself, his other hand still playing with his nipples. “You’ve must’ve had a bird do this to you.” He extracted his finger, laying it alongside his erect cock, as if contrasting their size. “A finger can tease, but a cock can take you higher than you can imagine. I want you to do that for me.”

At that moment, Bodie would have hammered a nail into a block of concrete with his cock for him.

When Doyle rose to his knees and extended a hand toward him, he reached back, and allowed himself to be drawn onto his knees until they were facing each other, close enough for their cocks to brush. The hand that was cradling his, closed around it, leaving a finger extended.

“I want you to put your cock right here.”

His hand was drawn downward, then pulled beneath Doyle’s body. His finger was nudged into the opening.

“Like this.” Doyle lowered himself onto the finger as Bodie hesitantly pushed upward. “Yeah, that’s it.”

The slick passageway clamped around his finger, then relaxed. They rocked together, Doyle’s motion pushing their cocks together, exciting him even further.

“See, you won’t hurt me. I used some stuff earlier. Add a finger,” Doyle murmured. “I can take it.” He did as he was bid. The way Doyle’s body relaxed around his fingers and the moans of pleasure intrigued him. He wanted to feel his cock gripped in that heat.

It was also time for him to take some initiative. He briefly considered kissing Doyle but that seemed somehow too intimate which was absurd considering what he was doing with his fingers. Instead, he fastened his lips on Doyle’s left nipple, remembering how Doyle had teased himself there. There wasn’t much flesh to work with, but the principle was the same. He sucked and licked the tiny nipples, then teased them with his teeth.

“Christ, Bodie. You’re going to make me come.” But Doyle clutched his head to his arched chest.

Bodie carefully withdrew his fingers. “Not until I’ve fucked you.” And then he did kiss him, reveling in the smothered mmphf of surprise that greeted his mouth. He plunged his tongue into the welcoming mouth as they fell back onto the bed, their limbs tangled together.

Doyle started to turn onto his stomach, but Bodie stopped him. “Not like that, I want to see you.”

Doyle nodded, grabbed a pillow and Bodie helped shove it under his hips. There was some awkward grappling, but they were in synch, working together toward the same goal. Finally he gripped Doyle’s legs at the knees, rolling his hips slightly forward and holding his legs apart, until his cock was poised at the entrance of Doyle’s body.

Their eyes met. Doyle nodded.

He slowly pushed his cock inside. But almost immediately the passageway clamped painfully tight around his cock. And Doyle couldn’t hide the spasm of pain that crossed his face. He wasn’t doing this to hurt Doyle, he started to withdraw.

“No, wait a minute,” Doyle gasped, locking his legs around Bodie’s waist. “Keep going, yeah, that’s it. It’s been awhile for me.”

Hesitantly, he continued, until finally his cock was completely buried. Doyle’s lush moan of pleasure was impossible to misinterpret.

“Now, fuck me.”

And he did.

He rolled off Doyle, collapsing onto his back, his heart still hammering. The little sod didn’t have to teach him how to fuck.

He glanced over at Doyle, expecting to see the admiration that was his due, but all he saw was his back. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Home.”

Bodie rolled his eyes. Ten minutes of peace and quiet; was that too much to expect? “If you don’t lay down and shut up, I swear I’ll smack you.”

Doyle turned to face him, a hint of the steely-eyed stranger lurking in his eyes. “Ooh, you’re so masterful.”

“I thought we were through with the games?” Bodie snapped.

Doyle lay down. Bodie threw a blanket over the two of them. “So what happens now?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.

Doyle shrugged. “I’ve just thrown away the last eleven years of my life. Maybe walk outside and get hit by a bus?”

“You mean, you didn’t have a plan when you came here tonight?”

“Didn’t expect you to bite, did I?”

“Liar.” He turned to study Doyle’s profile. ‘What was I supposed to do, fuck you then throw you out?”

Doyle shut his eyes.

“Just like she did.”

“Shut up, Bodie.”

“Shut up, Bodie,” he mimicked before falling asleep.

& & & &

Bodie stopped across the street from Doyle’s flat. It was just past seven. Doyle would be up and moving, by now. Doyle should be up and moving by now since they had a nine o’clock call. He crossed the street, but unfortunately a lorry didn’t scream around the corner and run him down. He sat down on the steps of the building.

It was all so pointless. If his job disappeared, so would Doyle. He wasn’t the hero in a bad romance novel, ready to sacrifice all for love. He’d blundered away the life he’d built for art occasional piece of arse.

At first he was nervous that it was going to get too intense between them. Doyle quickly dispelled that notion. The sex was still good—who was he kidding, it was great—but outside the bedroom Doyle was slowly backing away.

Of all people, he was the last one to be looking for the dreaded ‘relationship’. But instead of a buddy fuck, he had sacrificed his buddy for the fuck.

He buzzed Doyle’s flat. “It’s me.” The lock clicked open.

Doyle was sitting at his table eating some nutty looking health cereal. “What happened to you?”

Bodie shrugged. His clothing was sticky damp, his eyes felt like they were full of ground glass.

He must look like hell. “Long night.”

“You want to shower? You probably have some clothes over here.”

“Cowley knows.”

The spoon clattered against the bowl.

“What?” Doyle gasped, his face devoid of color. He jumped up from the table and crossed the room to stand in front of Bodie.

“About us. He knows about us.” He flinched at the look of devastation on Doyle’s face.

“How?”

Bodie looked away. “Pictures. The hotel we stayed at the night of the Robbins job was set up for a cheating husband.”

Doyle looked like he was about to lose his breakfast. “George Cowley has pictures of us screwing?

How?”

“I gave them to him. I am being blackmailed.” He waited for the explosion.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He ignored the question. ‘The pictures were under my door when I got home yesterday. I took them to Cowley late last night.” He was so tired.

“Why, Bodie?”

“What would you have done?” Bodie demanded.

“I’d have fuckin’ well handed in my resignation before he saw the bloody pictures, that’s what! I told you I’d never give him the opportunity to rub my nose in anything ever again.”

“You bastard,” Bodie said harshly. “You walked into my flat it been now?—five months ago and turned my life upside down. We get caught fucking, and you’re ready to walk. And for what, your pride? I’m glad I could be of service—or should I say, service you—during your last few months in CI5.”

Doyle’s fist caught him by surprise and he found himself on the floor blinking up at Doyle.

“I gave up any semblance of pride that night in your flat when I made a fool of myself getting you into bed. I gave it up again when I didn’t get out of bed and leave. You were right, I was planning to quit CI5 that night. You were my going away present. “

He paused, as if he needed to catch his breath. “You dumb ox, you’re the reason I stayed. And, for the record, you are the most inconvenient, bloody-minded person I’ve ever known.” Doyle turned abruptly and walked over to the window.

“If you stayed because of me, why have you been so—distant?” he asked quietly.

“Me distant? That’s a laugh coming from you know. It’s not like you ever made the first move. I always had to figure out if you were interested in going to bed or watching the match of the week. And when I guessed wrong you’d pull back like I’d suggested we stick coffee beans up our noses.”

Bodie leaned forward until his lips brushed Doyle’s ear. “This bean thing, it isn’t something you’ve been keeping from me, is it?”

Doyle shrugged away from him. “That’s right, make a joke of it. And he says I’m distant.”

Bodie rolled his eyes. “How does everything always get to be my fault?”

“All right, all right. Maybe we’ve both been sending mixed signals. I guess it doesn’t matter whose fault it is now that Cowley’s on to us,” Doyle said, resigned. “Oh, well, it’s not like we made any promises. “

It was all happening too fast. He wasn’t ready to let Doyle go, neither was he sure what he wanted to do with him. The only certainty was that if they left CI5 he’d never get the chance to find out.

“I’ll take care of Cowley,” he promised rashly.

“Right.” Doyle said, sounding skeptical. “You’ll handle it. It’ll be easy for you, because Cowley is going to blame it all on me. The funny thing is, he’s right. It was all my fault.”

Bodie slowly turned him around. ‘There you go again, claiming all the credit. We’d have gotten there eventually.”

Doyle wouldn’t look at him. “You can bet Cowley’s not going to see it that way. Maybe I can send my resignation in the post.”

Resisting the temptation to shake him, Bodie said, “I’m going to take care of it, Ray.”

With the promise came a commitment. In a bizarre way, this bound him to Doyle more than bedding him had. He tilted Doyle’s chin up.

“Like I said, we’d have gotten there eventually. You’re just lucky you got me while I am still young and beautiful.”

“And engagingly modest.”

He looked Doyle straight in the eye. “Promise me you won’t go off half-cocked. Remember, I’m worth it.”

“Yeah, you might be at that.”

Bodie took a breath, held it, centered himself, released the breath, then gave the buzzer a short jab. And waited. The blackmailer had contacted him that morning and he had duly informed Cowley as per his instructions. He’d stood in front of Cowley’s desk, crisply delivered the information, but Cowley never looked up from the report on his desk, never met his eyes. Not even when he’d ordered Bodie to come to his apartment at nine o’clock.

Nothing like being on time for your own funeral, he thought glumly. So where was the old man?

Then again, what was the big hurry? He still wasn’t sure how he was going to fulfill his promise to Doyle. He had a course of action to suggest, but it was the only weapon in his arsenal.

There was no guarantee that Cowley would even listen. Once his mind was made up, it took an act of God to change it.

Just like Doyle.

It was an odd idea, Cowley and Doyle couldn’t be more dissimilar. But they shared a common belief; each of them acted as if he was the center of his own universe. And each of them expected everyone and everything to stay in their assigned orbits. Neither of them recognized the concept of dual residency.

This satellite was getting impatient. He looked at the buzzer. What the hell? It wasn’t as if he could get into more trouble— 

He pressed it, but didn’t release it.

But old habits were hard to break. His hand flew back when the front door jerked open.

“Must be stuck, sir,” he said meekly as he walked inside.

“Wait for me in the sitting room,” Cowley said tersely before disappearing upstairs.

He ambled into the room, but was too keyed up to sit. He looked around. It wasn’t as if he’d never been there before, but rarely was he alone. He took the opportunity to look around. Unassuming, tasteful—the room could belong to a senior clerk from some bank in the City.

On the mantle was a picture that could be found in most homes of men in Cowley’s generation. The regimental picture. He picked it up, scanning the rows of serious young faces. It took a few moments, but he finally found Cowley.

But another face caught his eye. Alf? He looked barely old enough to shave. What a prick. They couldn’t get a box of shells without getting one of his unctuous little lectures about gun safety. “Never shoot it off in anger” being his favorite. And all the while he’d been selling CI5 armament out the back door.

Was that a photo album on the desk? He edged closer. It was too much to resist. The light from the desk lamp illuminated it perfectly.

He opened it. When alarm bells didn’t ring, he looked at the first picture. It had to be Ma and Pa Cowley judging from the style of clothing. George obviously favored his mother. No wonder Senior looked so stricken.

The next picture was a mass of blond curls and white lace. Cowley’s baby picture. Oh, for one of those miniature cameras.

The pictures progressed according to the family’s station in life. The first day of school, the first suit with long pants, graduation with the proud parents, then Cowley in uniform.

Spain. Christ, but he was young. The idealism shone out of him. But it was gone in the next picture. Officer insignia and a cane looked like they weighed heavily on the glum figure.

Another copy of the regimental picture followed. But something was missing—someone to be exact. Where Alf had graced the picture there was now a hole. He had been cut out of the picture.

There was another face missing as well. It took a minute to figure it out. ‘The Major” this, “the Major” that, “We were fighting the good war when you two were in your prams”—Barry Martin. The first recruit into CI5. What a disappointment that had been for the old man. Selling out wasn’t enough; he had to push him down the stairs.

The next page revealed a pretty little blond woman on Cowley’s arm. Annie? She really had been a looker. Cowley was actually beaming. They looked like they were on a picnic with other young couples. A date with Cowley. Maybe even sex? Brrrr.

Then it was up the career ladder with the post-war Cowley. Lots of guys in suits standing in front of buildings. Snaps of various anonymous countrysides.

Asia. More photographic studies. Then some pictures taken in a bar during what looked like a birthday party. There was Cowley sitting around a crowded table, but there was another missing face.

“Best man in the Orient.” Colin Meredith. Another disappointment for the old man. No matter that the poor bastard spent years being tortured by the Khmer Rouge. A betrayal was a betrayal. After all, as he had told Doyle, once Meredith was free there was nothing that said he couldn’t switch back. Especially since it had been a plot to take Cowley’s life.

Back in England. Cowley at various governmental functions, fishing trips, and more shots of the countryside.

The flip of a page brought Bodie face to face with himself. It was after that episode with Andrew Drake pretending to be a double agent. Drake’s arm was still in the cast. Cowley’s diffident invitation had mentioned something about strong backs and weak minds, but the three of them spent a pleasant weekend roughing it in Scotland.

He’d never mentioned it to Doyle who had been on an assignment at the time. Doyle had the nasty knack of making him feel like he was consorting with the enemy whenever he and Cowley did what could be passed off as socializing in their line of work irrespective of their different ranks.

In the picture he was holding an eight-pound bass, a smirk on his stubbly face. Drake sat the other side of the fire. Colorless, bland little Andy Drake. He’d wondered at the time what made Cowley drag him along.

Now he knew. Andy didn’t sell out CI5, consort with international assassins, try to kill him, or sodomize his partner. It took pitifully little to earn Cowley’s loyalty.

A slight shadow marred the picture as he started to turn the page. He took a closer look. On the picture, right beside his smiling face, there was a slight cut— 

The realization hit him like a shot in the solar plexus. Cowley had sat down to purposefully cut him out of the album. The phone had rung or the kettle had whistled, but the intention marred the photo. He didn’t expect it to hurt this much.

He slapped the album shut. And waited.

He automatically got to his feet when Cowley walked through the door.

“Sit down, Bodie.” Cowley took the chair opposite his. He took off his glasses, laid them on the table, then rubbed his eyes. “Have you any idea what a mess this is?”

“Why does it have to be, sir?” Bodie wished his voice sounded stronger, but he got Cowley’s attention. He felt like a matador with a red cape.

“Pardon me?”

He cleared his throat. “What I mean is, now that you know about—the pictures—” He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘us’ “why can’t I tell the blackmailer he can keep the pictures as a consolation prize?”

He chanced a look at Cowley. The old man was staring at him, his mouth slightly open. He’d made the Cow speechless. He hurried on. “He’s been disarmed. What can he threaten me with if you already know?”

Cowley shook his head as if clearing water from his ears. “Have you traced the ramifications of this—plan?”

‘What do you mean?”

“If he doesn’t get what he wants from CI5 and offers to sell them to MI6, then what?”

Bodie shrugged. ‘When Willis calls you tell him you knew...”

“And when Roskov calls from the KGB?”

“You tell him you knew.”

“And the CIA?” Cowley raised his hand. “No, don’t tell me. I tell them I already knew. Maybe I should just save time and post the banns. What do you think, Bodie? A nice engraved card? Or maybe just a discreet announcement in the Times—pictures omitted.”

“You’re twisting my words.”

Cowley shook his head. “Your plan, such as it is, sounds ridiculous because it is ridiculous. I have been very critical of the lack of security in other organizations. This has not endeared me to my counterparts. Any whiff of scandal within CI5 is going to be exploited to the fullest.” He looked at Bodie’s downbent head. “You know where I keep the scotch. Make them doubles.”

Feeling as if he had shot his last bullet, he did as he was bid. Cowley took a few sips, then tossed a large envelope on the table beside Bodie’s glass. ‘That is the information demanded by the blackmailers. Schedules, routes, and security arrangements for the treaty conference. There are two exploitable breaches, though not too obvious.

“The real security arrangement will of course be prepared to spring both traps.”

Bodie cleared his throat. “I don’t understand.”

“As of seven o’clock this evening, this matter became a formal operation we have been staging for the last several months.”

They were still in CI5.

The thought sang through him, making him literally lightheaded. Only when CI5 was restored to him, did he realize how much it would hurt to lose it. He was barely aware that Cowley was still speaking.

“I just rang off from Willis. He was, as I would have been, skeptical of such a story, but, ironically, when he learned that you were one of the agents involved he became more accepting. It seems your reputation as a ladies man has crossed organizational boundaries.”

It took a moment for him to notice that Cowley expected some kind of reply, but he didn’t rise to the bait. There would be no need to find another job. No need to leave England or go back into mercenary work. It wasn’t going to happen. They were still in.

Cowley would make their lives hell, but even if he had to spend the rest of his life filing Chinese pictographs, it would be worth it.

“The photographer is a problem. Once the trap is sprung—”

Bodie forced himself to track the conversation. ‘The terrorists will go after him.”

“Or Willis,” Cowley said drily. “It’s what I would do. He can’t be allowed to compromise the story.” Bodie knew a death warrant when he heard one. He had planned to kill the bastard anyway.

“If we are fortunate,” Cowley continued, “the terrorists will be important enough to justify the operation.” He paused. “Of course, Doyle will resign in four months.”

It took a minute for the words to sink in. “Resign?”

“Of course,” Cowley said impatiently, as if he had asked if the sun would rise the next morning.

“If you’ve convinced Willis—”

‘This is about more than salvaging this situation.”

“He wasn’t alone in those pictures.”

“I know,” Cowley said.

Bodie had to stop himself from squirming like a disobedient child. He’d rather stand naked in Trafalgar square than talk to Cowley about sex of any kind, let alone sex with Doyle.

“Tell me that Doyle didn’t instigate this situation.” Cowley was finally looking him in the eye, his expression sympathetic.

Bodie looked down.

“As I thought,” Cowley said. “This isn’t about you, Bodie. It’s about Doyle. He sacrificed a lot when he joined CI5. I think he came to a point in his life when he was unable to or unwilling to continue that sacrifice.”

“But it isn’t fair.”

“Is it fair that he endangered your career? If it had been anyone other than Doyle, would you have been in those pictures?”

“Of course not!”

“I’m not talking about putting him out on the street.” Cowley was leaning forward, his expression sympathetic. ‘There are many good positions that can be found for him where his private life will be his own.”

Maybe it was all for the best, he found himself thinking. It wouldn’t be like they wouldn’t see each other again. Maybe without the job hanging over them they could find out if they really did have an involvement that went farther than work. And Doyle wanted out anyway, didn’t he?

“It’s for his own good.”

The platitude hit him like a bucket of cold water. Cowley didn’t give a flying fuck about what was best for Doyle. “Another drink, sir?”

“Aye, lad.” Cowley sat back in his seat oozing sympathy.

Bodie took his time, shocked at how easily his buttons had been pushed. Christ, but the old man was good! First, separating him from Doyle’s crime, then assigning the blame to Doyle, only to turn around and make it seem they were doing him a favor by kicking him out.

Doyle was right. Cowley had held out absolution and he’d grabbed with both hands, sloughing off his responsibility like a snake shedding a skin.

He handed Cowley a glass then sat down. Something nagged at the back of his mind. Step back, look at it from all angles. He’d been well on his way to being another hole in Cowley’s album. But Cowley didn’t make the final cut. He didn’t do it.

Maybe he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t.

It was a blasphemous thought.

He glanced at Cowley, as if those mind reading stories were true. But all he saw was an old man. An old man who couldn’t stand another loss?

The universe shifted around him.

He held power in his relationship with Cowley. He pushed Cowley’s buttons on occasion. But it was like a court jester being permitted to make light of the king. Both knew what was and wasn’t allowed. This was something different. Cowley would never admit this button existed. Maybe he didn’t even realize it was there.

So how could he use this power without acknowledging and thereby nullifying it?

Cowley, and Doyle for that matter, were always setting conditions for him to meet. He had the right to set his own conditions. If Cowley wanted to keep him, he could bloody well keep Doyle.

He finished his drink and set it down. “Maybe you’re right, sir. But it is such a waste, especially since we’re not—I mean we haven’t been—together since about a month after the hotel incident.” ‘That is irrelevant.” This time it was Cowley who looked uncomfortable.

“That bitch, Ann Holly, has a lot to answer for.” He shook his head sadly. “He tried so hard to do the whole middle class, get married and procreate thing.” He mentally crossed his fingers. She hadn’t deserved to be Doyle’s heterosexual reclamation project any more than she deserved to be his scapegoat. “It’s no wonder he went off the rails for a few weeks.”

“Weeks?” Cowley asked reluctantly.

Bodie shrugged, looking chagrined. “It didn’t take us long to realize we were being stupid. It wasn’t really my scene and he was always worried about getting caught. Once he got his feet on the ground he didn’t really need it to go on. It just kind of ended.”

He looked at Cowley curiously. ‘Tm surprised you hadn’t noticed that we’d been a little distant with each other for the past few weeks. Things were finally getting back to normal, then this had to happen.”

He paused, unsure if it was time to play his trump card. ‘Who knows, maybe Ojuka still needs a few good men,” he said with a laugh. It was joke, not a threat. Not exactly.

Cowley gave a slight smile, but his eyes were wary.

Four months was a long time.

He let himself into Doyle’s apartment. Three days had passed since his confrontation with Cowley. In the meantime, Doyle had reported to work, kept his temper during Cowley’s dressing down, looked at the pictures without flinching, and stood there quietly as Bodie passed off their relationship as a fluke.

Netting one of the most wanted terrorist cells in Europe hadn’t hurt their chances with Cowley, either.

Since then, he and Doyle had been careful to leave separately, socialize separately, and arrive to work separately.

He quietly walked toward the bedroom.

“Is that you lumberin’ about out there?” Doyle called.

Bodie stood in the doorway. His partner was sitting up in bed, reading, his glasses perched on the end of his nose.

He finally understood what Doyle had been trying to tell him. It was literally right there in front of his eyes. Doyle’s expression was neutral, his body absolutely still. He was someone waiting for a sign. It had been easier for him to pass off Doyle’s attitude as diffidence. That way, it wasn’t his problem, and therefore not his responsibility. Being the injured party was a lot easier.

Sometimes the ‘b’ in subtle was meant to be heard.

He struck an exaggerated Doyle-pose in the doorway. When he was sure he had Doyle’s attention he slunk into the room and stood beside the bed. He reached down and plucked the glasses from Doyle’s face, carefully folded them up and set them on the table. Then, he stepped back and pulled off his shirt, and let it flutter to the floor—or as much as polyester can flutter.

“I was on my way to a bar to fuck someone, but I thought you deserved the first shot.”


End file.
